


Muster and Mourning

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Other - Freeform, contains homoerotic content aka explicit slash.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dunharrow. Tents. Legolas and Eomer miss Boromir. An angsty PWP.</p><p>Warnings: contains homoerotic content aka explicit slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muster and Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Legolas did not know who Eomer was, Eomer was sure of it, when the Elf clutched him in the dark hallway outside the Golden Hall’s privy. Nor, he thought, did Legolas care.

The one night where Eomer might have mourned Boromir, he instead drowned his grief in drink. He saw with mild surprise that Legolas, goaded by Gimli, was also drinking heavily.

As the revelry wore on, Eomer slid into a reasonless rage. It was how spirits affected him; he wished to fight, or to make love. Or both. The second time he intentionally trod on a man’s foot to provoke a fight, he resolved to leave the hall, and soon. The possibility of Aragorn seeing him brawling . . . it must not happen.

The incident with Legolas took place when Eomer went to the privy for the fourth time, the ale going right through him. Not surprisingly, as his intake had been as great, Legolas was there as well. They made water standing six feet apart. As Eomer fastened his leggings, he turned to see Legolas looking at his crotch.

He left the privy hurriedly -- the smell was disagreeable with hundreds of soldiers celebrating in the Golden Hall -- and Legolas followed him, seizing his arm in the corridor.

It was troubling to see the graceful figure unsteady. Eomer put his arms around Legolas to keep him from falling. Legolas reacted swiftly, pressing against him, kissing him, trying to burrow into Eomer’s body.

While Eomer was drunk, he was not so drunk that his mind had clouded. Whatever the Elf was offering, he did not intend to offer it to Eomer. If he had encountered some other Rider in the dark hall, Eomer thought, Legolas would have grasped him just as hard.

It all flashed through Eomer’s mind long before the kiss ended, for the kiss went on and on. Legolas hooked one leg behind him. The Elf would have toppled if Eomer had not held him.

For a moment, Eomer lost himself in the kiss. Their mouths fused effortlessly. It had not been long since Eomer had not known how to kiss; Boromir had taught him. The memory gave him the strength to pull away.

He took Legolas’s arm and helped him back to the hall, leaving him in the company of Gimli and Aragorn, then left for his room and bed.

Legolas’s reckless touch had left him aroused. _As I did not fight tonight, I should have taken him up on his offer! But he knew not who he was! It would have been no better than rape._

In bed, Eomer brought his hand to his crotch but did not touch himself. Instead, he thought of the first time Boromir had caressed him, in Eomer’s tent at the Isen. Eomer had stroked himself in front of Boromir that night, to provoke Boromir into touching him. When Boromir had done so, Eomer had been unprepared for the pleasure that had swept through him.

He was dry-eyed as he thought of his dead lover. He had not yet wept for Boromir, nor for Theodred. Perhaps, when the war was over, he would weep; get it done all at once, instead of bit by bit.

***

“Here, my lord,” Gamling said. He handed a quarter of a roast chicken to Eomer.

They ate their meal by firelight at the camp in Dunharrow. In the morning, they would ride to Mundburg. At the end of that journey was death. Yet the thought of death in battle was not what lay heavily on Eomer, like a stone on his chest. It was the realization that he had never told Boromir that he loved him.

He looked up from the fire to see Legolas walking towards them. As always, the Elf stood out from the men and women around him; it was the way he moved, and the light that seemed to shine from him.

During their ride to Dunharrow that day, Legolas had given him no sign that he remembered clinging to Eomer in the corridor. It seemed the night was lost to Legolas.

Ignoring the crude stools, Legolas joined them at the fire, sitting directly on the ground. In spite of his obvious weariness, he moved with grace.

Eomer recalled the first time he had seen Legolas: at Aragorn’s side, in the grass of the plains. His attention had been wholly on Aragorn; here was a man whose like he had never seen. Of the Elf, he had only a swift impression of golden beauty. Then, without even seeming to move, the Elf had an arrow in his bow, aimed at Eomer’s heart.

He could see the grief that marked the travelers’ faces, but in the Elf there was a greater sorrow, a hopelessness, as if he half wished Eomer to strike the threatened blow.

Eomer’s belligerence had dropped away from him, there in the grass. He was mourning Theodred, he was in exile, and his uncle was in Saruman’s power. He had not the heart to treat the three suspiciously; he had had enough of suspicion.

And then Aragorn had told him of the death of Boromir.

He had been numb since that moment. Boromir had been so close, on the borders of Rohan. Why could they not have met one last time, so that Eomer could have told Boromir that he loved him?

With a start, Eomer realized Legolas had been sitting at the fire for some time, and he had not yet greeted the Elf.

***

Legolas walked listlessly through the camp at Dunharrow, unsuccessfully fighting the malaise that had crept over him since Amon Hen.

He had battled his despair with frantic activity: the pursuit of the Orcs; fighting Grima’s men at Edoras; the battle at Helm’s Deep; the confrontation at Isengard; back to Edoras again; a swift ride to Dunharrow. He had not had time to think, or to feel.

When the chance finally came in Edoras, Theoden calling a toast to the victorious dead, Legolas had set himself to drinking, finding solace in ale and wine. Blessed oblivion had come over him.

The pain was soon back.

There had been no reconciliation between Boromir and Legolas after Boromir’s hard words to him at Parth Galen, the night before Boromir fell. Legolas wondered yet again if Boromir had said anything to Aragorn before he died. Aragorn had volunteered nothing, and Legolas had not yet had the courage to ask.

How had Boromir died? Forgiving? Forgiven? Or . . .

Merry’s and Eowyn’s laughter interrupted his brooding.

Gamling, Eomer, Eowyn, and Merry were before him, gathered around a fire. Legolas stepped close to warm himself with their company.

Legolas noted that, while his three companions were smiling, Eomer stared into the flames, seeing nothing.

Legolas let his mind drift near to Eomer’s. Silence. Other than Aragorn, he had not encountered a man who could so successfully hide his thoughts. Men were usually easy to read, Boromir most of all.

Staring into the flickering fire, Legolas was plunged into memory, recalling the moment when he began to fall in love with Boromir.

At their first meeting in Rivendell, he had thought Boromir haughty and provincial. They had argued at the council. Two weeks later, Boromir had looked at him with undisguised lust, and Legolas was incensed. He would teach Boromir a lesson, as he had taught so many other Men a lesson.

He had invited Boromir out with him and the hobbits, and they had picnicked under the trees. Legolas had looked up into the branches over his head and smiled with delight. The Great Ones: they were in all living things; he saw them there above him.

Observing his smile, Boromir asked him what he had seen, and when Legolas said the Belain, Boromir had not scoffed as he expected, but looked up with regret. Legolas heard Boromir’s thought clearly. _I see only trees._ Boromir’s longing had been palpable.

As their friendship grew, it was increasingly easy for Legolas to glean words and feelings from Boromir’s mind. After they declared their love for each other, the connection had been shockingly powerful.

Boromir seemed to understand it was there, sometimes speaking directly to Legolas in his mind, making no comment when Legolas acted on Boromir’s unspoken thoughts. It was in odd contrast to Boromir’s resistance to having his mind probed by other Elves. With Legolas, Boromir had no fear of it.

“ _Can you not pluck it from my mind_ ,” Boromir had said to him, wordlessly, in Lorien.

Only at the end had Boromir shut him out.

Legolas sat down at the fire. Eowyn and Merry left to find the smithy. There was silence.

“Good evening, Legolas.” Eomer said suddenly.

The firelight played over the horse lord’s somber face. There was a keen mind there, Legolas thought, hidden by a guileless manner. But something more was there, and only Legolas knew of it.

Boromir had told Legolas somewhat of his encounter with Eomer in Dunland while he traveled to Rivendell. Legolas had pieced together what Boromir had left unspoken.

When Boromir crossed the ford at Tharbad, he was attacked by ruffians, who took him prisoner. Eomer came to his aid, killing Boromir’s would-be murderers.

That was all Boromir told Legolas; the rest he gleaned from Boromir’s mind: images of Eomer naked, his grinning face seen in the darkness of a tent. Once Legolas felt the squeeze of the forceful arms, just as Boromir had.  
  
Gamling stood, wiping his hands, greasy with food, on his breeches as he walked away. Legolas watched with interest as Eomer fastidiously rinsed his hands in water and dried them on a cloth.

_I am the only man here who knows you are mourning Boromir_ , Legolas thought.

Boromir and Eomer had been in each other’s company only a few days. Yet the bond they formed had been passionate, born as it was in their battle together for Boromir’s life, their feelings raw after the slaughter of the ruffians.

_A golden-haired rider on a red horse, the blue steel sword in his hand dark with blood._ That was the first image of Eomer that Legolas had derived from Boromir’s mind.  
  
He wondered if Eomer had yet shed a tear for Boromir. He doubted it, for Eomer had been as hard pressed as he. Eomer had drunk heavily in Edoras as well, desperately downing his ale at Theoden’s toast.

Legolas understood, for he had not yet grieved for Boromir.

He had nearly fallen to his knees on Amon Hen at the sight of Aragorn with Boromir. For a moment, he had thought that both men were slain, for Aragorn was lying on top of Boromir’s body.

Aragorn had wept freely, and Legolas envied him. He feared that if he let himself mourn, he would not be able to go on with what lay before them. No time to rest; not yet.

“Whom do you grieve for, Legolas?” Eomer asked quietly. “Frodo and Sam?”

Legolas realized that a single tear was sliding down his cheek. He shook his head. “We trust they are still alive. I mourn for Boromir,” he said.

***

Eomer stared at Legolas, who stared at the flames. Looking at the grieving Elf, a suspicion crept into his mind: that Boromir and Legolas had been lovers. His body jerked as he recalled Legolas’s kiss, and the ease with which their tongues had intertwined. Legolas had kissed him the way Boromir liked to be kissed.

“He was a valiant man,” Eomer whispered to the flames. “Not like a man of Gondor, I thought. He would have been happier here, in Rohan, for he was like to us.” _He would have been happier here with me. Not you!_ The hot, sick feeling of jealousy gripped him.

He did not want to think of Boromir that way. Half closing his eyes, Eomer silently recalled the song that had almost brought him comfort in the last few days.

“The children of the sun,” Legolas said.

Eomer looked up at him sharply. “A child of the morning.”

“Of the dawn,” Legolas said, his eyes wet.

Eomer felt a sharp thrill go through him; Legolas had spoken lines from the song he had been reciting silently in his mind. Had he spoken it aloud unintentionally? He was sure he had not.

He stood and put a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “Come, Legolas. You are in need of rest.”

***

Legolas followed Eomer to a spacious tent; he was surprised at its size. But they would not be taking the tents with them on their road to Minas Tirith, so such extravagance was possible.

He allowed Eomer to guide him to a pile of furs and blankets on the rug-strewn floor of the tent. He sat and pulled off his boots.

“How did you do that, Legolas?” Eomer asked. The soft look Eomer had had moments before was gone; his face was hard, appraising.

“How did I do what?”

“Read my thoughts. I was recalling an old song of the Rohirrim, _The Children of the Sun_ , when you spoke lines of it aloud.”

Legolas leaned back on his elbows. He was wretchedly weary. _This must be what it feels like to be a Man_ , he thought.

“It is given to some of the Elves to discern the thoughts of others,” Legolas said. “I heard the phrase in my mind. I thought it was a memory I was recalling. I did not know it came from you.”

Legolas nearly smiled at Eomer’s guarded expression. Eomer had much he wished to hide.

“Did you read much of Boromir’s thoughts?” Eomer asked.

The question so soon on the heels of Legolas’s revelation was a guarantee of guilty knowledge concerning the steward’s son, Legolas thought wryly.

“Yes,” Legolas said shortly. “Unlike you, his mind was open to me.”

Eomer was expressionless. “Sleep well, Legolas.” He moved towards the tent flap.

“Eomer. This is your tent,” Legolas said. Guthwine, Eomer’s sword, was propped up in a corner.

“What of it? I shall share with Gamling. I do not begrudge you hospitality,” Eomer said, glaring.

Legolas nearly smiled again. Eomer reminded him of Boromir. A swift temper. A bold manner. A strong body.

“Stay with me and talk with me of Boromir,” Legolas said. _I am not ready to talk about him. But we may have no other chance to speak._

Eomer’s expression changed to one of resignation.

“You were much in Boromir’s thoughts,” Legolas said.

Once Eomer resigned himself, he acted quickly, sitting cross-legged on the ground a few feet from Legolas.

“What do you know?” Eomer asked.

“I know everything,” Legolas said, though he did not. He was weary of Eomer’s wariness. It was wasting their time. “You were his lover. You have nothing to fear from me. I was his lover as well.”

Swift emotions danced across Eomer’s face: anger, then grief.

“He promised to come back to me,” Eomer said. His face crumpled and his mouth opened. Legolas launched himself at Eomer, covering Eomer’s mouth with his hand as a heartrending wail tore from Eomer’s throat.

Teeth scraped Legolas’s hand but he did not move it. Eomer struggled, his body needing more air than he could take in through his nose. Legolas removed his hand, and Eomer sucked in breath. He sobbed quietly as Legolas held him, both of them sitting on the ground.

“I am sorry,” Eomer muttered, disengaging himself from Legolas.

“Do not be. I wish I could weep for him. I cannot, not yet,” Legolas said.

“Did he ever say aught of me?” Eomer asked when his voice was steadier.

“Much,” Legolas said, not explaining that Boromir had rarely spoken of Eomer to Legolas -- aloud. “He told me you were a great warrior, and that you saved his life.”

“I did not save his life.”

“But the ruffians . . .”

Eomer shook his head. “They were not going to kill Boromir. They planned to ransom him for money.”

“But you killed them,” Legolas said, growing pale.

“I killed them because they were going to rape Boromir,” Eomer said matter-of-factly. “It would not have killed him, but I was not going to sit by and watch it happen.”

Legolas was shocked. Eomer had slaughtered eleven men for his lover. And not in self defense, but in revenge.

“I followed them secretly for two days, waiting for a chance to help Boromir escape,” Eomer said. “I did not plan to kill the ruffians. But then they drank and pawed him. He was tied to a tree. And, the next thing I knew, they were dead.”

Legolas fought back his horror. The men had been drunk, and probably unarmed, when Eomer had slaughtered them. The blue steel blade had risen and fallen without mercy.

“You do not regret it,” Legolas said. This he could read from Eomer’s voice, which was steady. He still felt nothing of Eomer’s mind.

“Of course I regret it, Legolas,” Eomer said sharply.

Legolas was relieved.

“I let four of them get away; I will always regret that,” Eomer said. _I am exaggerating my callousness to anger him. Perhaps I hope he will strike me, so I can strike him in return._

“You should not have killed them!”

“I daresay you would have done the same, though with arrows and knives.”

“You may be right,” Legolas said after a long silence. In a softer voice, he said, “Thank you for what you did.” _Boromir would have been broken by it. He would not have been the man who loved me._

And the men _were_ murderers; they killed one of their own while Boromir was in their hands. That much Boromir had told him.

Eomer asked, as indifferently as he could, “So you were his lover? For how long?” The faint jealousy he had had earlier, when he suspected the truth, roared back, leaving him hollow. He looked at Legolas with new eyes, his heart sinking at the unearthly beauty before him. He imagined Legolas in Boromir’s arms. Boromir must have forgotten him completely once he had Legolas.

“Longer than you,” Legolas said. “But not long. Six weeks.” _Forty-two days. That is all we had._

Legolas’s jealousy of Eomer had stabbed through him when they met in Rohan, for he had not perceived how beautiful Eomer was from Boromir’s brief memories. He let his eyes travel over Eomer, the envy burning in him again. Eomer was far mightier than he. Boromir had taken much pleasure from that powerful body.

“Did you love him?” Eomer asked.

“Yes. We were not friends giving each other ease.” Legolas’s eyes flashed.

“He loved you, then,” Eomer said quietly. “He never told me that he loved me. He never said the words.”

Legolas laughed softly. Eomer narrowed his eyes.

“Forgive me, Eomer. I was merely recalling how insistent Boromir was that we journey through the Gap of Rohan. He disagreed bitterly with taking the pass over the mountains, even as we were upon it,” Legolas said.

Eomer smiled. “He was coming back to me.”

“He was not,” Legolas said. “He asked me to come with him to Minas Tirith.”

They glared at each other.

“He was mine,” Legolas growled.

Eomer stood. Legolas jumped to his feet.

“He was mine first,” Eomer said, his fists clenched. “He was the first man I laid with. I loved him! He was coming back to me.”

Legolas bristled. “He was the first man I laid with as well! The first man I let have me!”

Eomer laughed. “He had you, did he? Well, you are a pretty thing.” He was gratified when Legolas leapt, his hands reaching for Eomer’s throat.

They crashed to the ground. It was the last noise they made. They fought silently, for they knew that if they made a sound, someone would stop them.

Quietly, twisting on the rugs, they sought to kill each other. Legolas was immediately hard pressed, for Eomer was of heavier build even than Boromir.

_But Eomer has less skill than I in this style of fighting_ , Legolas thought. The horse lord was accustomed to fighting on horseback, not wrestling on the ground.

Legolas used his powerful legs, wrapping them around Eomer’s chest to squeeze the breath out of him. Eomer dug his elbows hard into Legolas’s inner thighs; the pain was intense, and Legolas was forced to let go.

They struggled on and on, putting each other in holds, then breaking them. Neither of them employed the vicious tactics of battle; the fight would have ended quickly if Eomer had punched Legolas in the throat, or if Legolas had pressed his thumbs into Eomer’s eyes. Instead, they fought formally, with the good manners of the practice field, as if Boromir judged them.

Their movements slowed. They were tiring. Legolas realized that they had been lying still for a minute, breathing hard. Eomer was on top of him, his breath shuddering through him.

“We must stop this madness,” Legolas gasped. Eomer did not move off of him, but his body went limp. Legolas grunted at the weight. For a moment, he thought Eomer had fallen asleep.

“You would have killed those men,” Eomer said. “You have it in you.”

He raised himself on his elbows and looked down at Legolas’s face. Legolas shifted under him, uncomfortably trapped between the hard ground and Eomer’s hard body.

Eomer smiled and grasped his wrists, holding them over Legolas’s head. “You are surpassing fair,” Eomer whispered. “And an uncommon fighter. I don’t blame him for loving you.”

“You have your own share of gifts,” Legolas said. He shifted and Eomer’s hips dropped down between his thighs. They stared at each other. They were both hard. It happened sometimes, Legolas thought, during fighting. It meant nothing. Eomer kissed him.

There was something comfortingly familiar about the kiss, in the way Eomer’s tongue plunged in forcefully yet caressingly. Legolas moaned into Eomer’s mouth.

They did not speak but came to a swift decision nevertheless. Eomer rolled off of him and they ripped at each other’s clothing, each of them trying to undress the other first. It was barely distinguishable from their earlier attempt to harm each other. At last they were naked. Eomer seized Legolas around the waist and dropped him on the pile of furs.

The fur on his bare flesh made Legolas gasp. He had never felt anything like it before; his skin sang with pleasure.

Eomer smiled at his expression, picked up a small pelt, and rubbed it on Legolas’s body.

Legolas writhed, rolling so that Eomer could reach all of him with the fur. He made a low noise, a throaty hum. Eomer rubbed the fur on his inner thighs. Legolas moaned.

“Quiet,” Eomer said. He was breathless at Legolas’s transformation from warrior to lover. Legolas was suddenly all satiny skin and silky hair, his face even more beautiful once stamped with desire. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red, his lashes dark against his skin.

Eomer wrapped the fur around Legolas’s erection and pumped his hand a few times. Just in time, he covered Legolas’s mouth with his hand. The stifled shriek reverberated against his palm.

“Enough of this foolishness,” Eomer said. He tossed the pelt away and covered Legolas’s body with his own. “I have fur,” he growled, sliding his hairy chest against Legolas’s hard nipples. They kissed each other bruisingly hard. Eomer forced his hips between Legolas’s thighs.

“Don’t think you can take me, just because Boromir did,” Legolas said, his voice hoarse.

“I’m not going to think about it, I’m going to do it,” Eomer muttered with more confidence than he felt.

They strove against each other, Legolas pushing Eomer away, Eomer pulling Legolas to him. While they struggled fiercely, they continued to kiss, gnawing on each other’s lips.

With an explosive movement, Eomer flipped Legolas over onto his stomach and straddled his thighs. Eomer bit the back of his neck and lay flat on him, holding Legolas’s wrists tightly. His erection pressed into the cleft of Legolas’s buttocks, sliding up and down easily as they were sweaty and slick from their fighting.

“Come, my uncommon fighter, resist me,” Eomer whispered. He bit Legolas’s neck again. “Unless you’d rather rub your cock on the fur beneath you.”

Legolas moved his hips and moaned at the sensation of the fur on his swollen flesh. Eomer’s erection slid in his cleft. For a moment, they moved together, Legolas rubbing himself on the fur, Eomer rubbing himself on Legolas’s buttocks.

_I want him_ , Legolas thought. He lifted his hips, rubbing his backside against Eomer’s erection. It felt large, larger than Boromir’s, and Boromir’s had been quite large. _I want the oblivion found in pleasure. I want to feel alive._

“Are all men like you and Boromir?” Legolas asked. Eomer ran his tongue down Legolas’s spine. “Well endowed?’

Eomer laughed. “Not at all. You’ve been lucky.”

“I would hardly call it luck,” Legolas muttered, gasping as Eomer’s tongue reached the end of his spine.

“You will,” Eomer vowed. He assaulted Legolas’s buttocks with his tongue. Legolas bit down on one of the thicker furs, the hairiness of it strange in his mouth. Eomer pushed his tongue inside him. Eomer’s hands held his hips firmly, but not so hard that he could not move. Legolas rubbed himself against the fur, fighting back a moan.

“Enough of this foolishness,” Legolas groaned. “I need more than a tongue.”

Eomer grunted in agreement. Legolas heard the rasp of a stopper being pulled out of a jar, then a cold, greasy substance was rubbed on his opening. He twitched, and Eomer held him still with his body.

Legolas muffled a cry as Eomer pressed in.

***

Eomer was desperate to sheath himself, but he stopped dead. Legolas was stiff, clenching his jaw, expecting pain. When Eomer had made love to Boromir, at the moment he had pushed in, Boromir had always pushed back, moving against him, making the passage easy. Legolas had no such skill.

“Get up on your knees,” Eomer said. “You have not done this much, have you?”

“No,” Legolas said, his voice strained.

It was not only that Legolas had little experience, Eomer reflected; he had little himself. When he had lain with Boromir, even though he had been theoretically in command, with Boromir kneeling in front of him, he had relied on Boromir’s knowledge to make it painless and enjoyable.

I do not know how to do this in a way that will not hurt him, Eomer thought, except by going slowly.

Legolas knelt on his hands and knees. Eomer choked back a cry.

“You are so beautiful, Legolas,” Eomer said. The light was dim, but he could see Legolas’s pale, flawless skin, his hair spilling off his back, the hard muscles moving under the satiny flesh. He stroked Legolas’s flanks and buttocks with his hands, lost for a moment in admiration.

“Hurry,” Legolas demanded. He arched his back and rested his upper body on the ground.

Eomer lost his hesitancy at the sight; the highest point of Legolas’s body was his buttocks. It was the same pose that Boromir had assumed the first time he had let Eomer take him, the posture of utter surrender.

What did it mean when one warrior surrendered to another, Eomer wondered. He positioned himself and pushed. Waited. Pushed.

Legolas protested the delay with wordless groans. Eomer forgave his impatience, for Legolas did not know he was a silky vise.

“I’m not sure I’m going to fit,” Eomer grunted. ‘By the Valar, you are hot!” At last he was fully in. He gripped Legolas’s hips and moved in and out slowly a few times. A tremor went through Legolas.

“Is it too much?” Eomer whispered.

Legolas moaned. “It’s too much. It’s perfect.”

Eomer sped up slowly. Their movements were erratic, without a rhythm, at first.

“Faster,” Legolas pleaded. “Please.”

Eomer shifted into a pace just short of pounding, his heart racing when Legolas let out a muffled wail, stuffing his mouth with one of the furs to stifle his cry.

When he had taken Boromir, Eomer had known intuitively that he had been granted a privilege. Boromir did not yield routinely, perhaps never. So why had he let Eomer take him?

He had thought long on it after Boromir left for Rivendell. He had thought, especially, on what manner of man he would let take him.

He knew the answer now; one who is greater than I, either in strength, or in mind, or in battle. He would not be surrendering to the man, but vanquished. After Boromir had left, he had known no such man. Another regret, for he would never have the pleasure of letting Boromir take him.

_There is one other you might grant it, whom you have loved since he rose up out of the grass . . ._

And now Legolas was before him on his knees, reminding him so much of Boromir that tears started in his eyes, even as he thrust faster. While Legolas was not broad of build, he was strong and a matchless warrior; there were few, Man or Elf, who could dominate him. But Eomer could, and that brought out Legolas’s desire.

A hot fire swirled in him at the thought of Legolas helpless. He was reminded of the night he had put on his armour, surprising Boromir.

That night near Tharbad, Boromir had been nude and Eomer had been encased in steel. The contrast had driven them both wild. Boromir had hissed with pleasure whenever the cold metal touched him. Eomer had bound Boromir’s hands to underscore his helplessness.

He stopped moving his hips, still buried to the hilt inside Legolas. A moment passed, and then Legolas moved, spearing himself on Eomer’s cock. He made a cry of need, and of protest.

Eomer gripped Legolas’s hips hard. Instead of moving his own hips, he pulled Legolas against him. Legolas cried out. Eomer could hear him biting down on the fur.

Legolas helpless . . .

Eomer placed his hands on the back of Legolas’s neck, holding the Elf’s upper body still. His fingers gently circled Legolas’s throat, not gripping the slender strong column. He pumped in and out of Legolas steadily.

“Try to get away,” Eomer whispered.

***

Legolas tensed, hearing the challenge in Eomer’s voice.

He put his hands flat on the ground to push himself up. Eomer let his weight come down on the back of Legolas’s neck, slamming him down the few inches he had managed to raise his body. Eomer did not cease moving his hips. Legolas tried to raise himself again. And again.

Eomer gripped his shoulders, his fingers digging into Legolas’s collarbone.

I cannot dislodge him, Legolas thought, arching his back so the thrusts would go deeper. Never mind that I do not wish to; I cannot. You have proven your point, horse master. I am . . .

***

“You are mine,” Eomer whispered. Legolas’s body trembled below him. Eomer abruptly moved faster, driving in and out of Legolas at an impossible pace. Legolas screamed his release into the fur, covering the pelt below him with his seed.

A feeling of pure power rushed through Eomer’s veins. His climax was violent, his vision dimming to black. He collapsed on top of Legolas.

“No wonder Boromir loved you,” Eomer gasped. He cradled Legolas in his arms, then kissed him. Gratitude and tenderness filled him. Legolas had given him something he had given to no other but Boromir.

Eomer’s kiss was as slow and gentle as his lovemaking was fierce. The softness of it broke something open inside of Legolas. Boromir had held him the same way after they had made love for the first time. A sob ripped through Legolas.

Eomer gathered him up in his arms as Legolas wept, his face against Eomer’s chest.

“Shhh.” Eomer caressed Legolas’s hair.

“He loved you,” Legolas said, his voice strange with tears. “I saw it in his mind. He loved you. And he knew you loved him.”

Eomer wept with him. He clung to Legolas tightly, wondering if he would have been generous enough to make such an admission to Legolas, had their places been reversed.

Half an hour passed, then Legolas stood up. “I must go.”

Eomer shook his head. “No. I’ll make another bed in here.” He divided the now damp pile of furs and blankets. They settled down, four feet apart. They stretched out their arms to hold hands, and fell asleep.

***

Legolas could touch Eomer’s hand if he wished. They stood side by side in the throne room in Minas Tirith, as Aragorn proposed a desperate gamble.

He could feel Eomer’s warmth along his body, as he had felt it the night before, in a tent on the Pelennor. Eomer had been exhausted, his uncle dead, Eowyn near death. Legolas had held the new king in his arms all through the night, sometimes kissing his forehead or hands, watching him while he slept.

In the morning, when Eomer woke, he touched Legolas’s face reverently, his brown eyes pools of tenderness.  
  
***

Late that night, Legolas went in search of Aragorn, finding him in the Houses of Healing. They stood on the city walls on the sixth level. They would ride for the Black Gate the next day.

“You must get some rest tonight, Legolas,” Aragorn said.

“I shall be fine, Aragorn.” Legolas clasped his shoulder. “You must rest yourself. I know what you did last night; you were up all night with the injured soldiers.”

Aragorn shrugged. “I can sleep later. They needed me then.”

Legolas took his hand. “Aragorn, I must ask you something. About Boromir.”

“I will tell you what I can.” Aragorn spoke gently.

Since Amon Hen, Legolas had harbored a nameless fear. It was nameless no longer after the Paths of the Dead, where he had seen the restless spirits of the oath breakers.

It had been easy to read, from Frodo’s sudden flight from the Company, what had befallen Boromir.

_Did Boromir die in grace, or in darkness?_

_Will our breaking last beyond the ending of this world?_

It was his deepest dread: Boromir lost in the afterlife, doomed as an oath breaker to flit about Amon Hen, unresting. He swallowed, his mouth painfully dry. To ask Aragorn for Boromir’s final words was to know the answer.

“Did he say anything of me before he died?”

Aragorn looked at him silently, considering.

“He did,” Legolas said, reading Aragorn’s face.

“He lost the power to speak. But his last thought was of you,” Aragorn said. “I always found it easy to read his thoughts,” Aragorn added, almost to himself.

Legolas’s eyes filled with tears.

“His thought made little sense,” Aragorn cautioned. “He was delirious, I believe.”

“What was it?” Legolas said, his face tense.

“ _Legolas, I see more than trees._ I am sorry,” Aragorn said uncomfortably. “There was no more.”

Legolas’s head bowed and his shoulders shook. Aragorn embraced him tightly.

“It means something to you,” Aragorn said, his voice excited.

“Yes,” Legolas said, his eyes streaming. _At the ending of this world, we shall meet again._

***

The End

***

Beta reader: RiverOtter!


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